


The lingering shadow

by Justafan



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Still deciding - Fandom, Twenty One Pilots, others - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, I have no idea what am doing, Prostitution, cool stuff, just read and find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justafan/pseuds/Justafan
Summary: There are two types of people found in a whore house . Prostitutes and monsters.





	1. To begin, we'll skip to the end

**Author's Note:**

> I have started a new story! Wooooooo, eh, eh. I don't know. This is more to help with myour writing and to improve on it so you don't have to read if you don't want but if you do please leave some constructive criticism in the comments, or not I'm not bothered xx

There are two types of people found in a whore house . Prostitutes and monsters.

Wait. I meant, prostitutes and respectables. That what they called them at least, in the house in the alley in amongst the bright, bold city of New York. The word respect had become lost in translation over the years, it's values overlooked and discarded.

The house was grand, a townhouse, but it had that scandalous vibe. The house was one that most people with true values of respect wouldn't be caught dead in, however the house wasn't looking for those type of people. They weren't the ones who pay the bills, the respectables did.

This particular grand townhouse housed countless of unsavory characters, each with their own elaborate tale of how they found themselves wound up amongst the dark business of the intricate and highly illegal affairs of prostitution. Every story must be told, but for now, we'll start at the end…

………..

Mr Pete Wentz sat in his office, lit dimly with a lamp that gives of a soft golden glow. There's papers strewn everywhere, as well as fabrics, blueprints, books and countless other pointless things. Unorganised and staying that way. As he sat he pondered over the books and files and records of all this illegal business.

He sighed deeply, his face going tense and his face being awash with disappointed emotions. He gathered all his papers, the ones with every record of everything that had ever happened in the house, in a neat pile. It was the neatest pile he'd made in years.

He picked them up and walked towards a photograph on the fireplace, staring at its secret meaning for quite some time. 

The photo was simple, as good in quality as any photo in the 1920s went, with over a dozen young boys standing around. Not sophisticated and elegant, but draped over each other in relaxed stances, most being captured by the photo mid sentence or mid laughter. Slightly blurred, but filled with extensive and exquisite details of the memory that lived on within the photo, within the moments before, and in the moments to come after. The two boys embracing in the corner was not considered such a brazen sight to the group as it would be in a normal social group, but they had never been considered normal. A loving gesture like that was instead interpreted as innocent and wholesome compared to the stuff they had all been through. Pete smiled softly, he had just wanted a nice, plain photo of them all, what he got had been anything but. It was perfect.

With an even deeper sigh than the one before he picked up the photo and placed it gently on top of the pile of important papers. He paused a moment, his gaze landing upon the young man in the corner, looking down at his book with interest, oblivious to the photo and his rowdy surroundings. He had always been like that, Pete thought. He was too innocent for place like this. Yet he was in the photo, which means that he too was amongst the stories and I am not delighted at all to say that no happy ending is in sight for the boy with the book.

Pete, at that moment, obviously had thought about that unfortunate future which had befallen upon the boy as well, for he turned the photo round, making it face the papers. His small smile had long since vanished from his features, a mask of unemotional emotion covering his true feelings.

Pete threw everything he held into the fire beside him, it roared in response, eagerly engulfing the memories and faces of the boys, the stories burning along with them.

Pete left the office without a second glance. The fire burned steadily throughout the night, until like all good things, it burned out, leaving ashes and deserted memories in its wake. It never burned again.

………..

The stories of those boys and Pete were destroyed that night, and were supposed to never to be spoke of again. I, however, am now here to inform you about the forgotten history of the Wentz whore house. It is not pretty, neither is it pleasant and none of the endings are satisfactory in the slightest. I would much rather prefer it if you stopped reading it immediately and never came across the story again. It's alright if that's what you want to do, I wouldn't blame you in the slightest. I would run too, if I hadn't been burdened with the task of rekindling the memories that had been long lost. Run, don't read this, don't involve yourself. Forget, just as countless others have done before you.

If you decide to venture on, remember:

I warned you to forget.


	2. The beginning (kinda)

Now I've got past the rude part of keeping you as far away from this as possible (which,if youre reading this, you have ignored completely) I shall introduce myself.

I am _the writer_. No name, no face. I know everything about that house, impossible things I couldn't possibly know, untold secrets and hushed affairs. How I came to obtain this knowledge is not any of your business, nor is it mine. I may occasionally slip up and inform you of things you were not supposed to know, so if I do that, please promptly forget everything. Thank you.

So, to begin, again, we must leave the ending and go back to the start. Not the very start, I cannot tell you about the very beginning, how everything came to be, only tell you about the important details of what lies between. 

We'll start on just another Saturday, July 1922, during the time of the prohibition. Not a drop of alcohol to be found. You can hear the sarcasm dripping off that sentence. In reality there were many drinking that night, in sleazy speakeasies and the like. This house, although stocked as much as the rest of them, was not sleazy nor a speakeasy. It was elegant, scandalous. The music blared and the air was thick with smoke from cigars. 

The men standing around chatting to one another were plain, middle aged, rich men, clad in expensive suits and a heavy smell of money dripping of of them.

The house opens at eight, where the manager greets the guests and shows them into a vast ballroom like room. They get their drinks and the “entertainment” doesn't start till nine. Perfect time to socialise, names are never revealed.

On this particular Saturday however, there is a rather tall, rather awkward man standing in the corner, looking uncomfortable. How he came to be in a place like this, I guess we’ll never know.

 

……………………..

Oh, wait, I know. Just 4 hours before, the tall man had no idea of this place, unaware of the hidden treasures it held. But like all precious secrets, it must be revealed.

He lived in Brooklyn, in a large house to which he didn't own. He was just one of the many occupants that stayed under the roof. He was an aspiring writer, desperate to write the next masterpiece, which could grant him eternal glory. Right now however, he worked for a shitty local newspaper, writing articles that usually involved cats or old people.

He had a safe life. His parents, reasonably well off, lived in a cosy home in Missouri. He had an alright paid job,albeit extremely dull and he lived in a nice place. It was comfortable, safe.

He didn't want safe. Safe isn't read about in books. He wanted danger. He wanted excitement. He wanted to live.

“To live?” His long term friend and neighbouring house tenant asked, as they sat together on the porch, as he explained his feelings to his friend. “Aren't you already living? Unless I'm actually friends with a ghost.” He laughed.

“You get what I mean Spence,” he spoke with exasperation, causing Spencer to sit up and adopt a more serious tone.

“Yeah, I know. So you want to live huh, Dal?” Spencer had that mischievous glint in his eyes, the one that set Dallon's warning bells off. He ignored it however, he wasn't going to shy away this time.

“Well, as you're not settling down with any girls at the moment,” he spoke rather suggestively, seeing as he already knew why women didn't interest Dallon. Men caught Spencer’s eyes as well. “There is a place I know…” he trailed off, waiting for Dallon to either run or be enticed for more information. He chose the latter.

“You mean a brothel?” 

“Exactly what I mean, brother. Not just any brothel, one that tailors to...men like us, they serve alcohol as well. The good stuff, not that brewed in a bathtub shit.”

Dallon’s heart was racing, his mouth dry. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? This was more dangerous than anything he'd ever done.

“There's this one guy, young, beautiful, almost feminine but not quite. You'd love him.” Spencer’s eyes seemed almost glazed over, as if lost in a trance.

Breaking out of it he asked, “You in?”

Dallon hesitated.

Hesitation is important. You can never rush into things. Hesitation is deadly. It makes people doubt the words that fall after the momentary silence.

“Yes.”

 

……………………………………..

And so here Dallon was, waiting. Waiting for what, he couldn't tell. He had lunged headfirst into a daring and adventure filled opportunity, he hoped he was prepared. He hoped he would remember to come up for air.

Spencer caught up with him after around half an hour of looking at the floor and not speaking to anyone. Dallon was relieved to see his best friend, only to see him being accompanied by another man. Fearing social interactions, Dallon almost shrank away.

“Dal! You came!” Spencer eagerly reached out and gave him a hearty clap on the back.

“Dallon, this is Pete Wentz, the owner of this fine establishment. Pete, this is Dallon Weekes, the man I was talking about.” 

Pete gave him a dazzling smile and offered his hand. Dallon took it with a weary shake. 

“Pleasure to meet you Mr Wentz.”

“And you, Mr Weekes, forgive me for saying but if I didn't know any better, with a face like that I would have thought you were one of my performers, please just call me Pete.” His voice was calm, alluring.

“Uhm… thanks, and same for you, just call me Dallon.”

“Well I’ve got to go start up the show but take a seat, as close to the stage as you can get. It can get rather… intimate.” He walked away, leaving the two to choose their table. They got as close to the dimly lit stage in the far left of the room as they could be.

“Gentlemen!” Pete’s voice rang, strong and clear throughout the room, though it's location could not be verified, “Thank you for attending this evening, we are all delighted to have you here. The entertainment will be starting directly,” there was an array of applause. “While acts are performing, the other performers will be drifting around the room. If one catches your eye, don't hesitate to ask me for a ‘Private Show’,” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “Without further ado, I give you the fabulous performers from The House Of Memories!”

Lights flooded almost all of the stage, side for one corner where a piano and boys started appearing here and there, some going for feminine scarves and jewellery, others wore open leather waistcoats, or shirts draping off of them. One was wearing the most peculiar trousers, they clung to his shapely legs. Dallon’s mouth dropped, before him, were a group of the most spectacular men he had ever laid eyes upon.

They all draped over each other, but were painstakingly still. It was like a living painting, albeit a breathtaking one. The air was silent, no one dared to even breath for fear of interrupting. Then the music started.

A single light shone onto the piano, painting the young boy sitting their in an angelic glow. As strands of his dark brown hair fell forward into his face, he began to play the piano beautifully, a bright tune.

_“Now I'm of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret_  
_Somewhere downtown where a burlesque queen may even ask my name_  
_As she sheds her skin on stage_  
_I'm seated and sweating to a dance song on the club's P.A._  
_The strip joint veteran sits two away_   
_Smirking between dignified sips of his dignified peach and lime daiquiri_

_And isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_  
_Oh, and isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_

_Oh, but I'm afraid that I_  
_Well, I may have faked it and_  
_I wouldn't be caught dead dead dead dead in this place_  
_Well I'm afraid that I_  
_Well that's right_  
_That I may have faked it and_  
_I wouldn't be caught dead in this place_

_And isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_  
_Oh, and isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_

_Well I'm afraid that I_  
_Well, I may have faked it and_  
_I wouldn't be caught dead dead dead dead in this place_  
_Well I'm afraid that I_  
_Well that's right_  
_That I may have faked it and_  
_I wouldn't be caught dead in this place_

_And isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_  
_Oh, and isn't this exactly where you'd like me_  
_I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know_  
_Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety_

_Praying for love and paying in naivety_

_Praying for love and paying in naivety”_

As the song went on the boys moved as one, their dances sensual, captivating. Many became lost among them. Dallon however had his eyes focused on the boy pouring his heart out in a song. He had dabbled with music before , but had never began to reach the depth that the boy delved into while playing. His hands danced over the piano, his voice slipped out of him with ease. He felt out of place at that moment, as if invading the boys privacy.

As the last note sounded, the performers resumed their still positions and applause filled the room. The boy stood up, clad in nothing but tight underwear and an almost transparent black loose kimono, and winked as he left the stage, the others fluttering out behind him one by one. Dallon could do nothing but stare and clap his hands until they ached.

“What did I tell you,” Spencer spoke as the noise died down, “They're enchanting.”

Dallon just nodded, his gaze still fixed on the piano.

Spencer looked to where Dallon’s eyes were intently fixed upon, “Ah, the pianist. He is beautiful, no? He was the one I was talking about. And let me tell you, his mouth isn't just great on stage, it plays a good part in the bedroom too.”

Dallon looked at him and swallowed hard. The music resumed again as another person took to the stage. “You slept with him?”

“Well duh, Dal, it's a brothel, what do you expect? It's quite a decent price too, since I'm close with Pete. Do you want me to pay for your first night?”  
Dallon blushed profusely, “Actually, I don't think I’ll- you know- do that sort of stuff tonight.”

“What! Are you crazy? You can't come here and not fuck one of them.”

“It's just that…” his voice became a mumble 

“It's just what?”

“I've only ever done, you know, with you.”

Dallon and Spencer were not, and had never been, lovers. The word love is too casually tossed around these days, however the people of this story kept it closely guarded. Most of them had never even said the word love before. So, Dallon and Spencer had fucked once or twice, because they were young and horny and lived in close proximity to one another. They had never even contemplated love.

“Aww, that's simply adorable.” Dallon was slightly annoyed at the patronising tone that accompanied Spencer’s words. “You're not using that as an excuse, my friend. If anything that should power your motives. You should be out there, getting some. I'll go get you a drink and help you think this through.”

Before Dallon could get a word in, Spencer had flounced away. Dallon, now unsure of what to do, simply stared at his hands. Then the applause came.

He looked up and saw the two main doors swing open as the young boys came in, all with an air of elegance and grace. He averted his eyes as he saw them begin to scan the room, searching for potential buyers. He heard them murmur to one another and then part, going in all direction, most sticking to big groups of customers.

Severely regretting his decision to come here, Dallon contemplated leaving. Unfortunately, Spencer arrived at the precise moment that Dallon went to stand up.

“Here you are, Dal!” he said cheerfully, handing him a drink. “Drink up, calms the nerves, cleanses the spirit, ups the confidence!”

Too good to be true Dallon thought bitterly as he downed the glass in one. Almost instantaneously he felt its effect, having not had a drop of alcohol in several years now. He eagerly invited the warm feeling it brought to his insides.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We wait.” Spencer looked around briefly, “He’ll be coming over any minute now.”

“Who?”  
“Pete...There he is now.”

 

Dallon looked over and sure enough, Pete was walking their way. What made his breath catch, was who he was accompanied by. The pianist looked dazzling up close, Dallon couldn't help but to feel slightly self-conscious as they approached.

“Spencer, Dallon! Good to see you once more, I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Dallon noticed the slight harsh tug that pete done to the pianist, forcing him closer, the pianists smile however, did not falter.

“Lovely to see you again Spencer,” His voice caused Dallon’s heart to pound. “And wonderful to meet you Dallon, my name’s Brendon.”

“Such magnificent manners, you certainly teach them well Wentz.” Spencer directly addressed Pete not even bothering to look at Brendon. Dallon was shocked at the rudeness displayed, especially since Brendon didn't even blink, just kept staring directly below eye level and smiling complacently.

“I, however, will not be taking him tonight. Dallon would like a shot, it's his first time in an establishment like this.”

“Spencer, there is no other establishment like this,” he spoke in a fake accusing tone. “Would you be liking all night Dallon, for your first time?”

Feeling like a teenage boy who still had his virginity, he mumbled, going red which he hoped was undetectable in the low lighting. “I don't-”

“Of course he would, the all night special brother, I'm paying.”

Pete’s eyes lit up at the mention of that almighty word. “Well, if you would accompany me then Spencer, to cash in your form of payment.”

They got up and walked away from Dallon and Brendon, Spencer only looking back at a helpless Dallon to wink cheesily.

“So, Dallon, what brings you here? Other than the mind blowing sex of course.”

Dallon choked internally, reaching for words that couldn't form in his mind. “um, I'm a writer, I thought I should be getting out a bit more, experiencing things.”

Brendon sat down on the chair previously occupied by Spencer, “A writer, really? Would I know any of your work?”

“No, it's uh, early days, you know.”

“Cool, cool. Tell me when you publish something though, ok?”

“Yeah, so what brings you here, like working and stuff?”

Brendon’s bright and radiant features darkened for the slightest of moments, his cheery facade slipping in the slightest, “I would prefer it if you didn't ask me questions like that.”

Then, as quick as it had faded, his bright mirage returned, brighter still, confusing Dallon’s mind with a cute smile and dark eyes. “Let me get you another drink babe,” the words rolled effortlessly off Brendon's tongue, cloaked in charm and lust. Dallon briefly wondered how he had taught himself to speak like that to strangers who were paying him.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

With one last heart wrenching smile, Brendon walked away with a feminine grace, more elegant than anyone Dallon had seen before. Dallon wondered just how much money he had saved in his bank account, and whether he could blow it all on a week,month,year or lifetime with Brendon. He knew that the pianist would capture his thoughts and haunt his dreams.

What Dallon didn't know, however, readers, is that Brendon would - _sorry can't spoil it too soon_ \- . But that's another story, for another time.


End file.
